


Peach Cobbler

by TheVineSpeaketh



Series: Tony's God-Awful Senior Year [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Fluff, Pansexual Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You fell asleep in class again.”</p>
<p>He groaned again, though he didn’t remove his head from underneath her hand. “I keep doing that, and I really shouldn’t,” he said drowsily, his voice too tired to be distraught. “I wish I could stop.”</p>
<p>Iron Widow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peach Cobbler

Things had been keeping Tony awake for a while at this point. He hadn’t been able to get a good night’s sleep when he first discovered that he was at least somewhat attracted to men (which had sprung on him quite suddenly, so that comes as no surprise), and that good night’s sleep had also eluded him the night he realized that pretty much anybody in his life was a potential target for his affections. Saturday night he had slept well, but then Monday had rolled around with Clint Barton and Loki (again, goddamnit) and, once again, he had been deprived of sleep.

He had tossed and turned each of these nights with thoughts running through his head that he didn’t wish were there, with questions he was pondering at precisely the wrong time. One of those questions was, “Surely I’m not just attracted to guys, right? Just because I haven’t had any out-of-the-blue thoughts about Pepper or any encounters with any girls as of late doesn’t mean that I don’t still like them, right?” Tony honestly had no idea, and trying to catch the elusive answer had kept him awake most of the night. He’d even gotten so desperate that he’d tried jerking off to make himself tired (first fantasizing about women, then men), only to no avail. He was just as restless as when he started, the only difference being how sticky and sweaty he was. He didn’t make that a habit.

Unfortunately, staying awake late multiple nights in a row did not bode well for his academic performance, and as a result, the classes that he took less interest in (and even some that he thought for certain he’d never be caught ignoring or disregarding) were often ones where he caught himself drifting into the annuls of sleep. Usually, though, it would only just be nodding off before he caught himself and put an effort into staying awake (even if he thought his teacher didn’t deserve his attention). He would pinch himself, or step on his own toe, do **something** to keep himself awake. Usually, such treatment worked.

This time, however, Tony wasn’t so lucky. He had been sitting at his usual table in Mr. Ross’s health class, sandwiched between Natasha Romanov and James “Bucky” Barnes, listening to the teacher in question drone on and on about the bad things drugs could do to people and the results of meddling with your body’s natural chemistry, among many other things. He spoke as if he were a fanatic, his words precise and militant despite his obnoxiously loud voice, which only made his ideals sound all the more unrealistic.

To be honest, despite the high pitch for his tone, Mr. Ross’s constant yammering was putting Tony to sleep. Tony didn’t really care for health class anyway, deciding that what he knew about his body was enough to satisfy any grown person, and, with literally nothing to do and no gadgets to doodle (he couldn’t even invent, he was so tired), Tony began to nod off.

He only really tuned in when Steve Rogers had piped in something about the military using chemicals on draftees to apparently make them “better, stronger soldiers,” which hurled Mr. Ross (who was ex-military, according to himself) into a long tirade about how that was different, and how they had done plenty of research beforehand, and how they knew a lot more than a bunch of meddling teenagers, so don’t ever do drugs.

Tony had put a valiant amount of effort into keeping awake, but it was not enough; his eyelids suddenly drooped, his head feeling heavy. He rested his head on his hand and tried to keep his eyes open, thinking that not having to keep his head up would make it easier. Alas, it had the opposite effect, and soon he was sliding into sleep, his body almost instantly shutting down. His lips were stretched at an awkward angle because of his cheek resting on his hand, the loose skin of his cheek being pulled away from his mouth. A slip of drool was running across his lip, nearly dripping onto his hand. He spent a majority of class in this position, his eyes resolutely shut, despite the ever-increasing noise. Mr. Ross didn’t seem to notice, having spent the same amount of time in class talking about the virtues of government with a skeptical Bruce Banner making occasional quips about the government’s many abuses, specifically of science.

The class had ended rather abruptly, with Bruce Banner being assigned detention, and Mr. Ross slamming his binder of class notes shut and rushing out of the room like a belligerent child. Steve instantly shot to his feet and went over to Bruce, expressing his apologies for bringing up the subject which got him in trouble, to which Bruce responded with vague hand waving and a placating smile. Bucky managed to retrieve Steve from his adamant apologies and invited Bruce to join them at lunch today on both of their behalves. Bruce accepted graciously and they left the room, Bruce being distracted from retrieving his charge, who was, alas, still drooling on the table.

One person, however, noticed, though not by any want of noticing Tony. She just happened to be incredibly astute, taking notice of almost everything, and as of late, Tony had been something she had been keen to keep a look out for. She had noticed his acting differently, be it subtle changes in his speech patterns (pointedly avoiding the word “faggot,” which he used to abuse with vigor) to his newfound inability to keep awake during class. Deeming these things connected in some way, and curious as to what could be ailing the great Tony Stark, she had been keeping an eye on him in an attempt to see what, precisely had gotten him to implement such random changes to his behavior.

Natasha had packed up her things very slowly and meticulously, dawdling and taking her time as the other students filed out of the classroom. It was almost too easy to get Tony by himself, especially since Bucky and Steve had unknowingly taken care of Bruce for her. The door closed behind the final student, and, with the room empty, she stood, making sure all of her things were in order before turning to Tony.

He was resting his head on his arms like a sleepy child, a bit of drool oozing onto his arm. He looked blissfully asleep, apart from the strange angle at which his mouth was pulled. Natasha was almost loathe to wake him, but he needed waking sometime. She leaned down carefully, studying his face for a moment before reaching forward and running her fingers through his hair, feeling the slightly-gelled strands slide between her fingertips. She pet his hair gently, always keeping an eye on his face to make sure she wasn’t bothering him. She stopped occasionally to smooth his eyebrows before returning to his scalp, smiling when he adjusted himself with a content sigh.

Eventually, she knew that stroking his hair wouldn’t wake him. While waking him was her objective, certainly, she also found a certain pleasure in watching him like this, his usual bravado lost to his dreams, his expression content. It was a side of Tony Stark people rarely saw, and it gave her a certain satisfaction to see him like this. Nevertheless, waking him was a priority, and so she leaned in close to his ear, watching his eyes, and whispered, “Tony, wake up.”

Tony jerked slightly as he came out of his dreams, a little gasp whooshing through his lips, and he opened his eyes slowly, looking around the room before focusing on Natasha. He closed his eyes again, a grumpy frown crossing his features, and when he opened them once more to find her still there, he groaned, closing his eyes. “Natasha,” he mumbled under his breath. “Where’s Barton? Is it finally time for me to die?”

She didn’t question his accusation. She just smiled gently, stroking his hair again. “It’s just me, Stark,” she replied in a gentle tone, watching her fingers as they brushed through his hair. “You fell asleep in class again.”

He groaned again, though he didn’t remove his head from underneath her hand. “I keep doing that, and I really shouldn’t,” he said drowsily, his voice too tired to be distraught. “I wish I could stop.”

“You haven’t been sleeping lately, have you?” she asked, and he groaned again, turning his head slightly. She never stopped studying his face, noticing the dark bags under his eyes, the somber line of his lips. He was suffering, though she didn’t know why.

“Not a wink,” he replied tiredly, opening his eyes to look at her. He couldn’t help but notice the out-of-place expression on her face; it wasn’t very often when you saw Natasha looking so gentle and soft. She usually didn’t give off much of any vibe, deceptive in her strength as she was in her emotions, but here, it was as if she had nothing to hide. It wasn’t like her to be like this. She didn’t coddle people who didn’t deserve it.

He wrinkled his nose, but only slightly. “You’re different. You’ve changed somehow.”

“So have you,” she replied easily, not relinquishing her hand in his hair. It was a pleasing sensation for him, for certain, though one he would never have expected from Natasha in particular. Her gaze, beautiful and observant, swept over his face swiftly before squaring on his eyes again. “I can see it on your face.”

“See what,” Tony replied grouchily, “my inability to sleep? My apparent frustration? My total lack of understanding when it comes to anything about anything anymore?”

“Your suffering,” she replied, smoothing his eyebrow with her free hand. “It’s plain to see that whatever has kept you awake is harming you, not helping you. I know you often stay up late when there’s a new project you’ve been working on, but you’ve never fallen asleep in class because of it.” Tony’s eyes grew a little wide. He didn’t know she knew that much about him. They rarely spoke.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted, “I haven’t been getting much sleep lately, and no, it isn’t because I’m working on something.”

“And it’s not something else,” she continued, her voice unwavering and sure. “It’s not a blueprint or a problem to solve. It’s something inside you.”

Tony flinched, nearly sitting up, but the hand in his hair suddenly felt heavier, grounding him, and in his weakened state of mind, he allowed it to press him down. The thin fingers in his hair relinquished their grip, resetting the state of his hair by smoothing it back into place gently. His gaze was as hard as it could be in his tiredness. He really couldn’t do much more. “I’m not someone whose brain you can pick, Natasha. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but leave me out of your Freudian shit.”

She merely tilted her head, unafraid of the harsh tone of his voice. She was not one to be startled easily. “I’m not asking to pick your brain, Tony,” she replied quietly, her tone kind and sincere, and Tony wasn’t expecting it; he wasn’t expecting the way that her eyes looked, or the way that her grip in his hair turned reassuring. “All I’m asking is that you talk to me about whatever it is that’s hurting you. Because obviously you can do nothing for it, and if I can, I would like to help.”

He stared at her, a look of shock on his face. A sudden wave of gratitude flowed through him, swift as the blood ran through him, and he was left with a sudden urge that he recognized instantly. He looked at the curls of her red hair, the large yet sensual shape of her eyes, the softness of her cheeks, the fullness of her lips, and suddenly, he wanted all of it; he wanted her to be here with him, wanted her to have her hand in his hair, wanted her to ask him if she could help him.

“Help me,” he breathed, suddenly less confused, and this was just like that moment he’d had with Barton by the ropes, or that moment he’d had with Loki in the library, or the feeling he’d gotten with Bruce on his bed. Because internally, they were all the same; they were all beautiful, inside and out, their bodies, their minds, their quirks, their smiles, their hands, their hips, their hopes, all of it. It was all a part of each of them, and it was all he ever wanted. All of it. All of them.

Natasha seemed to somehow grasp this. Without even needing to hear what he had to say, a look of understanding dawned on her face, and her hand moved, skimming through his hair before coming to rest on his cheekbone. Her thumb skimmed just under his eye, and she gave a little smile. He sat up fully, unfolding his cramped arms and moving closer to her, looking at her eyes, waiting for some sign that she would not be accepting of this, but there was nothing to be found.

He took the final plunge, their lips meeting softly at first, their kiss intimate and trusting, despite how little they really knew of one another. Tony hoped to discover all of it, starting with moving his hand to her waist, the other coming to clasp gently at her neck. They kissed slowly and lightly, their motions gentle as they pulled in closer to one another, close enough to feel the heartbeats in the other’s chest.

It was Tony who pulled away, and when he opened his eyes, Natasha fixed him with a gaze that he instantly recognized. It was still understanding, but there was another layer to it: acceptance. “You know about me and Clint, right?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”

Tony breathed gently as her hands moved across his face, mapping out his features as if planning to draw them later. He liked the feeling. “So you know about everything, then.”

She smiled gently. “We had our suspicions. I wanted to see if we were right. I hope you forgive me.”

The look on his face slipped slightly into apprehension. “Then, is this real?” he asked, trying to quell the sliver of doubt that pierced him.

She looked across his features, her own not belying her inner thoughts, and he cursed that about her. Her ability to stay completely stoic in potentially stressful situations could come in handy for him right about now. He waited with bated breath as she looked him over, another hand skimming through his hair again, and he’d never get over how calming that sensation was.

Finally, she looked back at his eyes, blinking twice before answering him. “In a strange and unexpected way, yes.” She ran her fingertips across his eyebrows again, as if unable to get enough of his features. “I hope you forgive me for that, too.”

“Nothing to forgive,” he replied easily, and he moved in for another kiss, loving the way that she pulled him close and kept her hands in his hair, loving the way that their kisses were slow, and would probably always be slow, loving the way that she smelled, loving the feel of her warmth so close to him, loving, loving, loving…

…and so close to the edge of an epiphany he could almost taste it on her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! In case you were wondering, or if it seems like I'm trying to say something... I just wanted to say that this series features not only pansexuality, but will eventually (maybe, maybe not) feature polygamy/polyamory. If that disturbs some people, then you probably shouldn't keep reading.
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)


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